We’re a very resilient bunch.

And we don’t give ourselves enough credit.

We give ourselves hell, and worry half to death.

We sweat, and stir, and think ourselves depressed.

We apologize for feeling in fear we’re being judged.

We’d rather bury our shame than see ourselves alive.

I know because I have,

and it’s a mean bitch to break.

It’s a cheerful judge and jury

who know nothing of our sorrow,

who predict us by our sin

and relish in our fate.

That other voice inside ourselves would rather condemn us for our failures

than see us for how far we’ve come.

Our life’s a disappearing act that’s always on display.

We struggle, fight, without respite until our dying day.

Nothing’s ever good enough.

No one is here to stay.

Would it kill you to feel at peace, in the presence of yourself?

Would it kill you to feel at home, in the love of someone else?

Not everyone’s out to get you, but some I’m afraid are.

Your private life’s not meant to be the butt of someone’s joke.

It’s when I whisper to myself, I feel most sincere.

While everyone is sleeping Lord it’s then I shed a tear.

It’s enough to drown my sorrow, enough to drown myself.

I’d give up everything you know to become someone else.

But even that is false I know in fact my heart regardless breaks,

for all the fattened silly saps who refuse to embrace,

this love we harness willing, this love we share in doubt,

this love we try to hide behind in fear we’d love ourselves.

It’s hard now to be honest when I’ve only half the plot,

still I know that I’m trying even when it seems I’m not.

You see, if we were a system

or a code that one could break,

this life would be unbearable, a pre-determined fate.

It’s why feeling lost is common.

It’s why letting go is hard.

It’s why seeing our own reflection feels like staring in the dark.

It’s why a single day seems agonizing.

And years just skip likes stones.

It’s while thoughtless in the afternoon

I feel I’m getting old—

except for children passing

one falls and scrapes his knee,

he cries and cries

then like the sun, he rises and forgets—

It’s then that I’m reminded, how old I felt at 9

and all the weight I carried, was really never mine.

What often gets me’s this, how quickly we forget.

How strong are we?

We’re strong as fuck,

resilient until death.